Murder on the Orient Express

“You had better let that man sit down,” he said. “He may faint otherwise.”

The chef de train moved slightly and the Wagon Lit man sank down in the corner and buried his face in his hands.

“Brr!” said Poirot. “This is serious!”

“Certainly it is serious. To begin with, a murder – that in itself is a calamity of the first water. But not only that, the circumstances are unusual. Here we are, brought to a standstill. We may be here for hours – and not only hours – days! Another circumstance – passing through most countries we have the police of that country on the train. But in Jugo-Slavia, no. You comprehend?”

“It is a position of great difficulty,” said Poirot.

“There is worse to come. Dr. Constantine – I forgot, I have not introduced you. Dr. Constantine, M. Poirot.”

The little dark man bowed, and Poirot returned the bow.

“Dr. Constantine is of the opinion that death occurred at about 1 A.M.”

“It is difficult to speak exactly in these matters,” said the doctor, “but I think I can say definitely that death occurred between midnight and two in the morning.”

“When was this M. Ratchett last seen alive?” asked Poirot.

“He is known to have been alive at about twenty minutes to one, when he spoke to the conductor,” said M. Bouc.

“That is quite correct,” said Poirot. “I myself heard what passed. That is the last thing known?”

“Yes.”

Poirot turned toward the doctor, who continued.

“The window of M. Ratchett’s compartment was found wide open, leading one to suppose that the murderer escaped that way. But in my opinion that open window is a blind. Anyone departing that way would have left distinct traces in the snow. There were none.”

“The crime was discovered – when?” asked Poirot.

“Michel!”

The Wagon Lit conductor sat up. His face still looked pale and frightened.

“Tell this gentleman exactly what occurred,” ordered M. Bouc.

The man spoke somewhat jerkily.

“The valet of this M. Ratchett, he tapped several times at the door this morning. There was no answer. Then, half an hour ago, the restaurant car attendant came. He wanted to know if Monsieur was taking déjeuner. It was eleven o’clock, you comprehend.

“I open the door for him with my key. But there is a chain, too, and that is fastened. There is no answer and it is very still in there, and cold – but cold. With the window open and snow drifting in. I thought the gentleman had had a fit, perhaps. I got the chef de train. We broke the chain and went in. He was – Ah! c’était terrible!”

He buried his face in his hands again.

“The door was locked and chained on the inside,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “It was not suicide – eh?”

The Greek doctor gave a sardonic laugh. “Does a man who commits suicide stab himself in ten-twelve-fifteen places?” he asked.

Poirot’s eyes opened. “That is great ferocity,” he said.

“It is a woman,” said the chef de train, speaking for the first time. “Depend upon it, it was a woman. Only a woman would stab like that.”

Dr. Constantine screwed up his face thoughtfully.

“She must have been a very strong woman,” he said. “It is not my desire to speak technically – that is only confusing; but I can assure you that one or two of the blows were delivered with such force as to drive them through hard belts of bone and muscle.”

“It was clearly not a scientific crime,” said Poirot.

“It was most unscientific,” returned Dr. Constantine. “The blows seem to have been delivered haphazard and at random. Some have glanced off, doing hardly any damage. It is as though somebody had shut his eyes and then in a frenzy struck blindly again and again.”

“C’est une femme,” said the chef de train again. “Women are like that. When they are enraged they have great strength.” He nodded so sagely that everyone suspected a personal experience of his own.

“I have, perhaps, something to contribute to your store of knowledge,” said Poirot. “M. Ratchett spoke to me yesterday. He told me, as far as I was able to understand him, that he was in danger of his life.”

“ ‘Bumped off’ – that is the American expression, is it not?” asked M. Bouc. “Then it is not a woman. It is a ‘gangster’ or a ‘gunman.’ ”

The chef de train looked pained at seeing his theory come to nought.

“If so,” said Poirot, “it seems to have been done very amateurishly.” His tone expressed professional disapproval.

“There is a large American on the train,.” said M. Bouc, pursuing his idea. “A common-looking man with terrible clothes. He chews the gum, which I believe is not done in good circles. You know whom I mean?”

The Wagon Lit conductor to whom he had appealed nodded.

“Oui, Monsieur, the No. 16. But it cannot have been he. I should have seen him enter or leave the compartment.”

“You might not. You might not. But we will go into that presently. The question is, what to do?” He looked at Poirot.

Poirot looked back at him.